


Days of old and days to be

by Rosie_Rues



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-10
Updated: 2009-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:10:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regency AU in which Arthur is the darling of the <i>ton</i>, Merlin is still a terrible valet, Mordred is a radical rabble-rouser, and Gwen's in love with a Light Dragoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tennyson's _Morte D'Arthur_. Prompted by [this poem](http://www.pa56.org/ross/hicok.htm) Many thanks to [](http://itachitachi.livejournal.com/profile)[**itachitachi**](http://itachitachi.livejournal.com/) for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Written for [](http://anowlinsunshine.livejournal.com/>Anowlinsunshine</a> for CamelotSolstice 2009.</p>)

In the summer of 1819, many things were said of the young Marquess of Camelot: that he was the darling of the _ton_ , the most eligible man in London; that he was almost as fine a man as his father, the Duke; that he was a notable whip, a fine shot and a good man in the ring; that his costume, though correct in every detail, never displayed a hint of over-extravagance; and that, to the sorrow of every ambitious mama in England, he was yet to show even the slightest inclination towards matrimony.

However, at the hour of 4am, as he meandered his way home from his club, only one thing could be said of the marquess with absolute certainty: Arthur Pendragon was thoroughly foxed.

It was a pleasant enough state, and as he turned onto St James Square, all he had in mind was the entertaining prospect of waking his valet out of his sleep. His manservant was a heavy sleeper, and his antics on being awoken at this hour were always amusing. Arthur still hadn't puzzled out the time the idiot had managed to put all of his clothes, including his boots, on inside-out without noticing.

The equalling befuddling effects of drink and Merlin perhaps explained why Arthur didn't react with any particular shock when he noticed someone climbing up the side of his building. Instead, he leaned back to watch appreciatively, almost slipping off the curb before he steadied himself. He was well aware that burglaries were common, but he'd never had the chance to foil one before, and it offered a slightly better end to the night than watching Merlin try to walk through closed doors again.

Then he registered the distinctly feminine curves of the would-be burglar and felt his heart sink. So much for a good brawl. He knew exactly who was trying to climb into his house.

As compensation, he kept watching. Shame he didn't have his opera glasses to hand, but there was just enough light for him to appreciate the view, especially as she had swapped her usual swishing skirts for tight breeches. Despite the rumours that circulated the _ton_ , he was almost certain that she was not his natural-born sister and so he had no qualms about enjoying this, especially when she let out a distinctly unladylike oath when his window didn't open under her push.

“Having trouble, Morgana?” he asked pleasantly.

She froze and then looked down at him, managing to be haughty even half-dangling from a windowsill. “Have you just been standing there and watching?”

He grinned up at her.

She glared. “Well, then? Who is it? Who did you challenge?”

“Beg pardon?” Arthur said, tapping the side of his head. Had the drink gone to his ears?

She sniffed. “Well, no one would be foolish enough to demand satisfaction from you, so it must have been your fault. Who is it?”

“Have you taken a maggot in the brain?” Arthur demanded. “I haven't challenged anyone and I'm not intending to. Now, will you please get down from there?”

“When you let me in.”

“Damn it, Morgana. Someone will see you soon.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I was expecting you to be home at such an hour.”

“I have no idea why you would think something so absurd,” Arthur pointed out, but headed inside before she could answer back.

He found Merlin in the study, sprawled out in Arthur's favourite chair, legs stretched out in front of him and hair on end as he snuffled into his cravat, which was abominably crumpled. Arthur thought rapidly, discarding five or six plans before he crept up behind the chair. Then, grinning in anticipation, he grabbed the back of the chair and tipped it forward.

Merlin hit the floor with a startled shout, limbs flailing. “Ow! What did you do that for, you prat?”

“I believe you're talking nonsense in your sleep again, Merlin,” Arthur observed, his spirits lifting. “If you were awake, you would remember that you can't talk to me like that.”

“Oh, I'm awake,” Merlin grumbled. “What do you want?”

Arthur considered amusing himself for a little longer, but Morgana's reputation was, almost literally, hanging in the balance. “Go and let Morgana in.”

Merlin blinked at him. “You just got in yourself. Did you slam the door in her face?”

“She's on the windowsill.”

“You're drunk, aren't you?” Merlin asked, looking put upon. “Again.”

“Just open the window, Merlin.”

Merlin sighed heavily and trudged over to the window as Arthur righted the chair and slouched into it comfortably.

“This is just some ridiculous trick to make me look gullible, isn't it?” Merlin complained. “As if I'd really believe that Lady Morgana was trying to climb in...” His voice trailed off as he pulled the curtain back to the sight of Morgana's face glowering in. “Er.”

“Well, don't keep a lady waiting,” said Arthur.

Merlin pulled the window open without another word, though the expression on his face was something Arthur would cherish for days. Really, Morgana's latest flight of lunacy was prime entertainment.

Morgana climbed in elegantly. “Thank you, Merlin. I'm sorry for troubling you at such an hour.”

“You didn't apologise to me,” Arthur protested.

She swept past him with a sniff, dropping into the chair opposite. “I'm doing you a favour.”

He snorted. “If anyone saw you coming in the window, you'll be marrying me, and I don't consider that a favour.”

She shuddered. “I cannot think of anything more horrible.”

“Then why are you trying to compromise yourself by turning up here? Did you not even think to bring Guinevere as a lookout?”

“Gwen refused to come with me,” she said, a little sulkily. “I had to wait until she was asleep. And I'm trying to save your life, Arthur, so a little courtesy would not go amiss.”

“How exactly are you saving my life? Which I wasn't aware was in any danger, by the way, unless Merlin's planning to set fire to my bed again.”

“You know, that only happened once and it was only a little fire, so I really don't think it's fair of you to-”

“Shut up, Merlin. Morgana?”

She looked down, staring at her hands where they were clasped on her lap, and went quiet. Even with the curtains half-open the light in here was dim, shadows heavy in the corners of the room and the gilt lettering on the spines of the books barely glinting in the low firelight. When he looked closely, though, he could see the heavy shadows under her eyes. Heart sinking, he went over to the sideboard and poured her a drink.

She raised an eyebrow in surprise when he handed it to her. “Brandy?”

“You might be a termagant,” Arthur told her, dropping back into his own chair, “but you can hold your drink. Now, what possessed you to think I had taken up duelling?”

“I dreamed it,” she said, staring down at her drink as if she could divine truth from its dark surface. “The heath, at dawn, pistols, and blood, so much blood. I saw you hit, and then just blood.” She grabbed his sleeve, fingers digging in. “Arthur, promise you won't challenge anyone.”

“You had a nightmare?” Arthur protested, as Merlin swung round to face them, looking suddenly worried.

“It was true,” she said, flushing. “And I know how that sounds, but it's happened before.”

“She's right,” Merlin butted in. “You should listen to her, really.”

Arthur gave him a scathing look, but didn't say anything. He could only deal with one dearth of common sense at a time, and he needed to get Morgana calm and home before she was missed. “Pure coincidence, I promise. If it will make you happy, I'll promise not to challenge anyone, nor to accept any challenges that I might be offered. Happy?”

“Swear it,” Morgana said, leaning forward. “On your honour and your name.”

“On my honour,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

“And by your mother's memory.”

Arthur reflexively glanced at the portrait that hung over the fireplace. It was the only image he had of his mother: a fair solemn girl in an old-fashioned high-waisted gown, Miss Ygraine Wallis had been painted years before her father finally granted permission for her to marry the hero of the Peninsula. As far as Arthur knew, there were no other portraits extant – his father had burnt them all day after she had died. Sometimes, when he was tired, or had been clashing with his father's steely sense of duty, he wondered if the grave look in her eyes hinted that she had already guessed that within ten years she would be dead in childbirth, another tragic thread in the legend of the Iron Duke of Albion. Perhaps she had dreamed, as he assumed young girls did, of children and family and a comfortable home, but had been resigned to the fate of a younger sister with neither title or money to commend her. Instead, she had won a hero and an early death.

“Arthur?” Morgana said sharply.

“It's the wine,” Merlin said sagely. “It goes to his head and he nods off in the most unlikely of places. There was this one time when-”

Morgana looked thoroughly entertained, but Arthur stretched out a leg to kick Merlin hard in the shin. “I swear by my mother's memory that I will not partake in any duel. Satisfied?”

Morgana stood up. “It will have to do. I'll show myself out.”

“No, you bloody won't,” Arthur said. “Merlin, have my curricle brought round. I'll find you a coat, Morgana.”

“I'm quite capable of getting myself home. I came all the way here without taking any harm.”

“Well, you're having an escort home.” He held up his hand as she started to argue. “My father would skin me alive if he knew I was letting you romp around the streets of London unchaperoned.”

She sniffed. “Well, if you're poor-spirited enough to tell him.”

“He'll find out,” Arthur said darkly. “He always does. I want you home before I have to marry you.”

“Have somebody else in mind?” she asked, draining her glass with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“No!” he snapped and then turned to glare at her as she smirked at him. “I'm sorry – I thought you had already inconvenienced me enough for one night, but it seems you have neglected to interrogate me over my marriage prospects.”

“No need to get into such a high miff about it,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You have plenty of pretty chits throwing themselves at your feet. You might give at least one a second look.”

“I've no intention of getting leg-shackled,” he said, wishing she'd drop the subject. “And how many hearts have you ground into the dust this week?”

She waved her hand airily, “Only one more proposal. I shall be stretched to reach a full score by the end of the Season at this rate. I take it you are contenting yourself with Paphians and demi-reps, then?”

“ _Morgana!_ ”

“Oh, please,” she said, yawning. “As if I'm some green schoolroom miss.”

“It's damn well not a subject for any respectable woman. And, for your information, no, I'm not. Now drop the subject.”

“You're so dull these days,” she complained, but rose to her feet. “Shall we go?”

Arthur held out his coat for her, turning the collar up to hide her hair and shadow her face. “I'll have that back from you once you're home safe.”

She fingered the folds wistfully. “Weston?”

“Who else? And you haven't the shoulders for it, so don't be tempted.”

“As if I'd want shoulders like yours,” she retorted and let him escort her out of the room.

Merlin was standing by the horses outside the front door. He sighed heavily as they came out. “If you've quite finished pulling caps with Morgana, perhaps you could get started before the town wakes up.”

“See,” Arthur said to Morgana. “I don't need a wife – I already have Merlin to nag me to an early grave.” He went to the horses' heads to steady them, and as he turned back to the carriage, he saw Morgana lean forward to speak to Merlin.

“Has he not remembered anything?” she murmured, voice so soft Arthur could scarcely hear her.

“Not yet,” Merlin said, and suddenly he looked much older than his years, and weary. “How much do you?”

“Pieces,” she answered. “When I dream, it's back as well as forwards. And it's true, isn't it? We've been here before.”

“Well, not precisely here,” Merlin said.

Arthur cleared his throat noisily. “If you've finished conspiring with my valet, Morgana?”

She climbed into the carriage. “Let me take the horses.”

“Trust you with my greys?” Arthur said, genuinely horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Even as she turned to argue, he gathered up the ribbons and set them moving. The streets were quiet enough that they could move at a decent speed back towards Mayfair. He turned the corner onto Piccadilly with the horses in such perfect form that pride surged through him. He made sure to look nonchalant, of course, but this was the best start to a day he'd had in weeks, even if it did have Morgana in it.

London didn't stink so much at this hour, in this district. There was just enough bite in the air to sharpen his senses, but the morning held the promise of a hot day to come. The sun was already bright, washing the tall townhouses with a kindly light. This was when he loved his city most, before it filled up with noise and people and expectations.

In Curzon Street, he drew up in front of the house Morgana shared with the elderly cousin Uther had appointed as her chaperone. Before he had even stopped, the front door was open, and Gwen, Morgana's abigail, was peering out, her face frantic.

“Go,” Arthur said, nodding to Gwen. She was the only sensible person he knew and for that he would have braved Morgana's fury and married her years ago, if not for the fact that she had never showed the faintest interest in him. That, and it would give his father apoplexy.

With Morgana safely inside, he turned his horses and headed home with no intention of doing anything until noon except sleep soundly.

  


#

  
But he dreamed.

He was staggering through smoke, the sound of screams and striking swords all around him, though he could see only the shadows of the battle. Broken walls stretched out along the blackened earth, scarred with cobwebs of black cracks, still hot to the touch when he caught himself on one. There were men on the ground, red-clad bodies broken. The air tasted like ash and blood and death, and he could smell the thick foul hum of shredded guts.

That was enough to tell him this was not just a dream. This was real.

A horse came screaming out of the mist, eyes rolling and maddened, saddle reaved apart, the tatters tangling around its legs as it kicked and reared. Arthur threw himself out of its path as it came towards him, and his whole body flashed with pain as he rolled into shelter.

He was wounded. His shield was gone. His head was swimming – he had taken a blow there, not the first of this war.

The horse was still coming, and he wrenched his sword out of its scabbard, bracing himself against the steaming wall.

Then the fog began to stir, roiling back in a great surge of something relentless and unseen. It pressed the horse back against the earth until it began to scream, a shrill, desperate sound that no creature should ever have to make.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathed, clutching his sword in unsteady hands. “If you're coming back, now would be a good time.”

But he had lost Merlin a year ago, watched him bleed out in the shadow of a may tree in a forest far from here. There were only so many miracles one man can perform in a lifetime, and Arthur had stopped waiting for Merlin to come again.

The smoke parted, and a man stepped out of it, his hands extended before him, driving the air before him. His ragged druid's cloak was stiff with blood, but Arthur knew him, would always know him. Slowly, he stood and called, voice grim and rasping, “Mordred!”

The man turned to face him, and even now his eyes were wide, with the innocent wonder of a child or a madman, as if he was looking at something which Arthur could never quite see. He said nothing, but a quick, triumphant smile flashed across his face and Arthur knew, in the way of dreams, where and when he was.

This was Camlann.

“Arthur! Arthur!”

It was Merlin's voice, and there were hands on his shoulders, and suddenly the scene around him shook apart. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting up bolt upright in bed, his fists locked into Merlin's shirt and his heart pounding. Merlin was staring at him and, maybe it was the lingering sense of horror, but for a moment he didn't look foolish anymore. Sunlight was washing in through the half-closed curtains to light his face, making his eyes seem gold, and he was utterly focussed for once, all of his attention on Arthur.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“The end,” Arthur said, and he wasn't sure if he was quite awake yet, because he could feel the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders, destiny like chains.

For a moment, Merlin seemed lost in thought. Then he said, “You were dreaming.”

“I know that,” Arthur snapped.

Merlin shook himself, and then said, “Funny things, dreams. I once had one about a woman who ate dung for dinner and then there was-”

“Go away, Merlin,” Arthur said and flopped back against his pillows, dream already fading.

  


#

  
He went to Tattersalls that afternoon, not with any real intention of buying, but to enjoy the company and admire the horseflesh on offer. When he got there, however, he found the place full of red-coated cavalry officers, their laughter booming out across the yard. Arthur retreated to one side, trying to force back the sudden, unworthy twinge of envy. He had been riding as long as he had been walking, was as proficient with a pistol as a sword, had spent his childhood winters huddled over Caesar and Livy. The summer he had been thirteen, he had a tutor who was devoted to the Greek Ideal and they had happily lived according to the Nobler Spartan Principles, at least until September when he had gone back to school and Morgana had refused to sleep in a tent on her own.

In short, his greatest concern had been whether his father would give him a command of his own, or whether he would keep him underfoot for the first few years.

Then his father had come back from Waterloo, still flushed with victory, and told him that he would never countenance his only son risking his life on the battlefield.

Morgana had nice to him for six whole months, until he'd finally snapped and called her a bristle-browed, whey-faced milkcow. She'd promptly got her revenge by breaking the hearts of six of his closest friends, and all had returned to its normal equilibrium.

Even now, though, it still rankled to see fine red coats, and he had no wish to display a bitter face towards any of the _ton_ that might be watching. Glumly, he glanced up between the trees to where his father's windows looked down upon the park, and wondered if his afternoon might not better be spent elsewhere. Of course, the Iron Duke was in Belgium, being feted for his past victories, but Arthur still felt ashamed to be frittering away his time in sight of his father's house.

“My lord?”

Arthur turned round, trying to place the voice. Then he saw who was standing before him in red coat and captain's insignia. “Lancelot!” he exclaimed, dragging him close by the shoulders, dignity forgotten. “What in damnation are you doing in town? I thought you were in India.”

“I had family business to attend to,” Lancelot said gravely, but a smile was starting on his face in response to Arthur. “I'll be returning to my regiment once my leave is over. I had hoped to enjoy the sights of London for a short time.”

“I'll make sure of it,” Arthur promised. “Damn, it's been, what? Five years?”

“Nearer six,” Lancelot said.

“Then I demand an afternoon. Unless you have plans already?”

“There was a horse I was looking at,” Lancelot said, face bright. “I'd welcome your opinion, of course.”

  


#

  
After a happy hour, they rode out into the park, their friendship renewed. Arthur had even found it in him to forgive Lancelot his captaincy, not least because Lancelot had talked himself almost hoarse in an attempt to describe elephants.

He was aware that they made a fine pair as they rode towards the Serpentine. The young ladies of the _ton_ were beginning to gather, pale and pretty in their carriages or walking with their arms linked with their maids and chaperones. Many of them cast sly glances towards both Arthur and Lancelot, some of them whispering to each other behind their hands.

“We'll leave them behind if we ride on,” Arthur said, casting a wistful glance at the horizon. From here, the park looked like countryside, green and soft and open.

“I don't mind,” Lancelot said, absent-mindedly bestowing a smile on a yellow-haired miss and her startled governess.

“Give it time,” Arthur said, shuddering. “Women. You see them in the schoolroom and think they're sane. Then they grow up and learn to giggle and scheme and gossip. They draw up charts, Lancelot, I swear to you. They'll have a column for you by evening – a tick for fortune here, a cross for temperament there. Terrifying.”

“It would hardly be the first time we were compared,” Lancelot said, chuckling.

Arthur stared at him, puzzled.

“Will's father's scrumpy,” Lancelot clarified, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Arthur laughed, remembering. Ten years ago, and all six of them sprawled in the hayloft on the Lawrence farm, the air heavy with the golden, apple-warm scents of autumn. The cider had tasted thick and sweet on their tongues, even Morgana gawky and giggling. There had been a bonfire in the yard and the firelight had crept in just enough to wash them all with warm, soft light. Will, lazy and confident, had struggled up onto his elbow and said, smirking, “Well, ladies, which of our likely lads would you pick, given the choice?”

Morgana had simply cackled. Gwen had shaken her head, eyes full of quiet amusement. Merlin, already too sozzled to sit up, had said happily, “I'd take them both.”

It had been a good night, and they'd stayed up long after they'd smuggled the girls home, talking about things Arthur couldn't remember now, but which had seemed vital at the time.

“I remember the tanning old man Lawrence gave us the next morning,” he said wryly.

Lancelot winced. “You got off lightly.”

“You had the worst of it,” Arthur said, remembering how indignant he had been about that at the time.

“Damn right I did. And all the time, he was saying, 'And you a parson's son, Mr Lancelot. A parson's son.'”

Lancelot's sudden mimicry of old Lawrence had Arthur shouting with laughter, startling his horse, and Lancelot grinned at him, looking pleased with himself.

“So,” he said. “Made an honest woman of our Merlin yet?”

“I'll tell you,” Arthur said, grimacing. “Another season in town and I might be driven that far. The lengths these women will go to... You're lucky to be out of it.”

“Actually,” Lancelot said earnestly, “I'm looking for a wife.”

“Good God,” Arthur said in horror. “Have you suffered a recent head injury?”

Lancelot gave him a quick, amused smile. “Not for a few months. I need company out there – someone with the courage and honour to live in a world that's so strange to us.”

“But marriage!” Arthur protested.

“My sisters are all provided for, and I want a family of my own.” He glanced at Arthur and chuckled. “I'm older than you, my lord, don't forget.”

“Only by a few years,” Arthur retorted and shook himself. “Well, if that's what you want, let me introduce you around. Most of the girls I know are ninnyhammers, but there are a few sensible ones. Morgana will know 'em.”

“I couldn't presume-” Lancelot started.

Arthur looked at him in disbelief. “You're an officer. You're a gentleman. You might not be up to touch for a title, but the sensible girls don't have those.”

“I hadn't realised you were such an expert on sensible women, my lord.”

“Lancelot,” Arthur said sadly. “Lancelot, Lancelot. You don't even realise how much you are in need of my wisdom.”

  


#

  
He took Lancelot with him to Lady Worcester's ball, confident that any guest of Arthur Pendragon would be welcomed across the _ton_. The house was already humming when they arrived, so packed that there was barely room for the dancers to twirl and hop across the floor. The whole place was lit to the ceiling, the light from the chandeliers making jewels glitter around every smooth, elegant throat. The music was barely audible over the hum of conversation and hiss of whispered, scandalous gossip.

Lancelot looked rather wild-eyed but, man of honour and courage that he was, did not turn tail and run. Arthur, who had been forced to suffer years of this since he came of age, dragged him over towards a woman whose presence would normally have sent him urgently off to investigate the décor (a valid bit of curiosity and _not_ , whatever Merlin might say, to be referred to as hiding behind a plant pot). Now, however, he had both a mission and a shield.

“Lady Banbury,” Arthur said, bowing to her as she blinked in shock. “And Miss Amabel, isn't it?”

“Amelia,” the rather sallow teenager squeaked from behind her mother's shoulder.

“Amelia, of course. Forgive me. How are you enjoying the festivities, my lady?”

“They are, as always, magnificent,” Lady Banbury said, recovering herself. “Dear Honoria always excels at these affairs. I hadn't thought to see you tonight, my lord.”

“Couldn't miss it,” Arthur lied cheerfully. He had been planning to stay in and humiliate Merlin at chess again. “May I make known to you my old friend Captain DuLac?”

Lady Banbury's eyes lit up. No woman with six daughters to see off would turn up her nose at an officer, let alone one with influential friends. “The pleasure is all mine, my lord. Have you been long in town, captain?”

“I arrived only this morning, my lady,” Lancelot said, bowing over her hand. “I have been in India these three years.”

“Lancelot served with my father on the Continent,” Arthur butted in helpfully. “He's quite new to town. I was hoping Miss Amelia would be kind enough to honour him with her hand for a dance.”

He could see Lady Banbury hesitate, torn between entrusting her daughter to a stranger and granting a favour to a future duke. After a few moments, she said, “Amelia would be honoured.”

Arthur watched Lancelot lead the poor girl out into the dance. Her yellow dress clashed horribly with his uniform, she was shaking slightly and he was pretty sure she wouldn't get a complete sentence out before the end of the dance. He sincerely hoped Lancelot could remember how to dance or there would be hysterics before long.

“A schoolfriend of yours, my lord?”

“We were at Eton together, yes,” Arthur said, knowing exactly what she was asking. “But we have been friends far longer. Reverend DuLac held the living at Cadbury when we were children.”

“Ah,” said Lady Banbury, drawing the noise out with a little hint of disappointment. Then her face changed and she said, all charm, “And here is my second daughter. You do remember dear Elinor, I hope, my lord?”

Dear Elinor was currently gawping at them, a brimming glass of ratafia clutched in each hand. Her mother swiftly relieved her of them and hissed something at her which had Elinor jerking a curtsey and gasping, “My lord.”

She wasn't quite as sallow as her sister, so Arthur swallowed his sigh and did the proper thing. “Would you care to dance, Miss Elinor?”

“Oh, yes, please!” Elinor gasped, and Arthur offered her his arm, reflecting gloomily on the lengths he went to for his friends.

Of course, once the dance was done, he retreated to a quiet corner to watch the carnage. It was a blessed relief not to be the most popular freak in the sideshow, and this was hilarious. He'd read accounts of cavalry charges which were gentler than this.

“You are a wicked man, Arthur Pendragon,” Morgana said, appearing at his shoulder. “Poor Lancelot.”

“He _wants_ a wife,” Arthur pointed out.

“Do not, on any account, announce that to the room. I am already contemplating a rescue sortie.”

“Nonsense,” said Arthur. “He has charmed them all.”

Morgana snorted inelegantly. “True. All that courtesy and innocence. The mammas wish to adopt him, the daughters want to swoon on his feet, and the widows-”

“Ah, the widows,” Arthur said appreciatively. “Do tell me what the widows want, Morgana.”

“To take him home and devour him, for a start,” Morgana suggested. “I cannot stand by. Let us rescue him.”

“Go ahead,” Arthur said, gesturing lazily at the floor. “If I go out there, they'll pull me down in his place.”

“I can hardly cut in on his dance, Arthur.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “Once the music ends, we'll approach from either side.” She swung round to face him, dark curls bouncing against her bare shoulder. “Well, any challenges yet?”

“Not a one.”

“Offended anyone?”

“I believe I stepped on Miss Devereaux's toe, but she did not complain.”

“Well, she has no brothers, so it's of no account.”

“I'm sure it's of some account to her.”

Morgana sniffed. “It serves her right. She bullies her chaperone.”

“I'll step on the other foot next time,” Arthur promised lightly, as the music ended. Morgana shot off into the crowd and he followed her.

They arrived at Lancelot's elbows at the same moment, even as the hovering crowd of young ladies began to surge forward. Lancelot looked like his horse had just been shot out from under him, wide-eyed and slightly twitchy. Possibly the joke was wearing thin.

“I believe you have not spoken to my father's ward Morgana for some years,” Arthur said hurriedly.

Lancelot swung round in relief. “Lady Morgana. I would have recognised you anywhere.”

“Dear Lancelot,” Morgana said, pitching her voice to carry across the surrounding crowds. “I am desperate to hear of your adventures. You must allow me to drag you away from the floor.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Lancelot said, and Arthur silently applauded him for not letting the relief show. Morgana swept the surrounding crowd with a cold glare which made them all fall back meekly. The two of them bundled Lancelot off to their corner as fast as they could.

“Now,” Morgana declared. “Since this is all your fault, Arthur, you can fetch me a drink while Lancelot tells me everything that has happened to him since he was last home.”

“How is it my fault?” Arthur protested, but she turned her back on him with a sniff. Rolling his eyes, he stomped off towards the drinks table. He got waylaid three times – once by a man who owed him money, once by a pretty bit of blonde treachery, newly widowed and chasing after old prey once more, and once by a friend of his father's, who wanted to know if he had heard from the Duke lately.

By the time he reached the table, his temper was ruffled, and he took his time looking for the flattest glass of lemonade available, more to give himself a respite than to irritate Morgana (he considered his need to annoy Morgana a purely instinctive matter, on a level with hunger, thirst and his preference for pears over apples).

He wasn't expecting to be interrupted by a cool murmur of, “Pendragon.”

“Mordred,” Arthur said flatly, without turning round. There were few people in the _ton_ he disliked more than the youngest son of the Countess of Orkney, and not merely because the man featured so often in his nightmares. Both Morgana and Merlin had hated him from the moment they first saw him. Arthur might not entirely trust either of their judgement, but he listened when they agreed on something, especially when the object of their dislike sent shivers down his spine every time they met.

Besides that, Mordred FitzLothian was a rabble-rouser.

“The gallant captain has returned, I see,” Mordred said, staring at Arthur. “I'm surprised you trust him.”

“He is a man of honour,” Arthur said coldly. “I thought you were still in the North.”

“Others continue the good work,” Mordred said, eyes gleaming. “I have come to work among the poor of London.”

“You're not doing them any service,” Arthur said. “All your speeches and rallies do is incite violence and turn the charitable against the poor. You damage those you claim to help.”

“The poor do not crave charity,” Mordred said, stepping closer to him. “They want justice. Go down to the rookeries of London, Arthur Pendragon. You will find a hundred people in a single house, men, women and children alike living where the walls are coated in filth. There are families who live in cellars there and crawl forth through their cracked walls with the coming of the night. The girls of St Giles consider themselves blessed to have one ragged dress or coat to cover what modesty they still cling to.”

“St Giles is also a den of thieves and light-skirts,” Arthur said. “If you'll excuse me, I promised to attend a lady.”

Mordred seized his sleeve. “You were once a just man, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur pulled his arm away. “Good evening, FitzLothian. Don't trouble me with your rants again.”

“You have a destiny, Pendragon, that you can't escape.”

Arthur walked away, ignoring the covert stares and whispers from across the ballroom. His reputation could stand it and he didn't care a toss for Mordred's.

  


#

  
Later that evening, he was still irritated by the whole scene. They had made it back to his house and were sprawled out in the study, Lancelot on one chaise, Arthur on the other and Merlin, who had encroached, on the floor between them, passing the burgundy back and forth.

“I give plenty to the poor!” Arthur said indignantly. “How dare he imply otherwise? I have been commended for my generosity! I've had my name in sermons!”

“Of course, my lord,” Lancelot said, but there was more laughter than reassurance in his voice. He was draped across the chaise, his cravat hanging undone around his neck and his legs swinging, eyes a little vague and lips red from the wine. He reached down to take the bottle from Merlin's loose grip again and swigged straight from it before passing it over to Arthur.

“Sermons!” Arthur repeated, waving the bottle and inadvertently splashing Merlin.

“Hey!” Merlin said, and mopped the spilt wine up with his shirt tails. “I think he had a point. Not like your money makes a long term difference, does it?”

“It feeds people!”

“And when the money's gone, they're still hungry. Me, I'd rather have a job than a handout.”

“I thought you didn't like Mordred,” Arthur said, tipping wine into his mouth.

“Oh, I wish he'd never been born,” Merlin said, kneeling up. “But that doesn't mean he's wrong. Give me that.”

“It's my wine,” Arthur said, clinging to the bottle. “My very expensive wine.”

“Which you're pouring over your equally expensive carpet, you prat,” Merlin pointed out and tried to wrestle it off him. Arthur fought back, which ended up with him falling off the chaise, a lot more spilt wine and his inevitable victory. Shoving Merlin's face into the rug as he sat on his back, he smirked.

“Say 'Arthur Pendragon is the most generous man in London and I want nothing more than to lick the dung from his boots.'”

“Arthur Pendragon is the greatest prat in London,” Merlin started and Arthur rubbed his face in the carpet again. “Ow. Get off, you lump.”

“That should be 'Get off, my lord.'”

“My Lord Lump. Can we change the subject? See anyone you fancied, Lancelot?”

“I met many charming ladies,” Lancelot said stiffly, but then sighed. “Yet none have touched my heart.”

“Give it time,” Merlin assured him. “You'll find the right woman, I know it. We'll help.”

Lancelot sighed again, wincing slightly. Obviously he was desperate to marry. Surely he wasn't still a virgin?

“You should make a list,” Merlin said, squirming underneath Arthur. “Write down everything you want in a wife and then we'll all go looking for someone who fits.”

There was a moment of contemplative silence, before Lancelot said, voice strained,“Wouldn't you rather hear something about India?”

“Yes!” Merlin exclaimed.

Arthur deigned to roll off him, flapping his hand at Lancelot in permission. The chaise seemed too far away now, so he dropped his head against the small of Merlin's back and stretched his legs out across the floor. For such a sack of bones, Merlin was a surprisingly comfortable pillow.

Lancelot was rambling on about jungles and tigers, which Arthur had heard that afternoon. Bored, he stretched out his foot to nudge Lancelot's leg. “Tell us something they believe.”

“I want to hear about the tigers,” complained Merlin, but Lancelot stopped and pondered.

Then he said, “They believe that a man's soul lives through more than one life.”

Beneath Arthur's head, Merlin went very still.

“No heaven?” Arthur asked.

“Not exactly. Each life you live is a chance to come closer to perfection. The way you live your life determines what manner of creature you will be when you return – an ant, or a lion, or a king.”

“I think I'd remember if I'd ever been a lion,” Arthur said.

“Oh, you don't recall. Some souls are simply older than others.”

Merlin was as tense as a bowstring.

“Seems pointless,” Arthur said, yawning. “If you can't remember it makes no difference how old your soul might be.”

“Unless some people can remember,” Merlin said, voice so low and wretched that Arthur could barely hear him. “Unless some people live on and on, waiting for the ones they loved to come again, knowing it can never be the same. It would be like one hand living on without the other. We could all have known each other once before – you, me, Gwen, Morgana.” He paused and then added, with venom, “ _Mordred._ ”

Lancelot laughed. “Speak for yourself, my friend. I'm sure I'm a new-minted soul.”

Merlin laughed hollowly, and Arthur poked him in the side. “I won't waste good burgundy on you again, if it makes you rattle on like this.”

“I'm not rattling on.”

“Merlin, you rattle like a baby is shaking you by the ankles.”

“I'm serious.”

“You're an idiot.”

They were interrupted by a faint snore. Up on the chaise, Lancelot was fast asleep.

“Huh,” Merlin whispered. “He still does that?”

“Thought he'd hold his drink better now he's a soldier,” Arthur whispered back.

“We're not going to get him home tonight, are we?”

“I don't even know where he lives.”

“Better find him a blanket,” Merlin suggested and tried to stagger to his feet. He fell over twice on the way to the door, so Arthur trailed after him towards his own room. Merlin managed to get as far as the bed before he stopped, looking bemused. Arthur sighed and pushed him over onto the mattress, kneeling down to get a blanket out of the drawer himself.

“This isn't my bed.”

“Your bed's up two flights of stairs and you can't walk on the flat right now,” Arthur pointed out. “You can stay there.”

“You're not so bad, after all.”

Arthur ignored him to stagger to the study and cover Lancelot up. He blew out the candles and wandered back towards his bed. Merlin had managed to get his boots off and was curled up on top of Arthur's blankets, grinning to himself.

“Keep to your own side of the bed this time,” Arthur warned him. “Or you will be on the floor.”

“I promise,” Merlin said, eyes big and sincere.

  


#

  
Arthur woke some hours later with a pounding head and Merlin draped along his side, snuffling into his neck. He pushed the idiot away, dragged the blankets over his head, and went back to sleep.

The second time he woke, his head had cleared a little, but Merlin was whimpering into the back of his neck, one arm slung over Arthur's side.

“Shut up, Merlin,” he said, not quite awake.

“My head. Ow, ow, ow.”

“Take it like a man,” Arthur advised and pushed him away again.

He couldn't sleep any more, though, especially not when he was aware of the ball of hangover-flavoured misery just behind him. Propping himself up on his elbow, he said, “Have you ever been to a rookery?”

“No. Don't talk. It hurts.”

“Serves you right,” Arthur said. “You have some really foul and disreputable clothes that I could borrow, don't you?”

There was a pained silence, before Merlin said, “No.”

Arthur turned over to see his idiot manservant glaring out at him from under the blankets, eyes bloodshot and reproachful. He grinned at him, and Merlin's glare intensified. “No, you are not going to the rookery in disguise.”

“What a marvellous idea, Merlin,” Arthur said heartily. “I would never have dreamt of such a thing if you hadn't suggested it.”

“You can't.”

“I think you're getting confused again, Merlin. You don't tell me what to do.”

Merlin looked panicked for a moment, but then announced triumphantly, “You promised to call on Morgana this morning.”

“Then I'll visit the rookery later,” Arthur said, sinking back against his pillows. “I might take Lancelot.”

“You'll take me,” Merlin said grumpily.

“You?” Arthur scoffed.

“Yes,” Merlin muttered. “Me. Lucky old me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and burrowed under the covers again. There was something very comforting about sleeping with Merlin's bad mood in the background, that lulling stream of grumbling that had followed him ever since they were all children, when it didn't matter so much whose father was a general, or a parson, or who had no father at all.

He was on the verge of sleep when a sudden thought occurred to him. “Merlin?”

He got a loud unconvincing snore in reply.

Arthur kicked back. “You're not asleep. What time did I say I'd call on Morgana?”

“Eleven.”

Arthur rolled over and looked at the clock.

Damn.

  


#

  
Twenty minutes later, they had retrieved a bleary-eyed Lancelot from the study and were jammed into one seat, Lancelot driving as Arthur tried to tie his cravat without knocking Merlin into the road.

“Give that here,” Merlin said at last and tied it with a quick twist.

“That had better be decent,” Arthur said, fingering it and eyeing the mess around Merlin's own throat dubiously.

“Easier to do someone else's. Why am I here?”

Arthur tried not to look shifty. “I thought you'd like the opportunity to see Guinevere.”

“You're going to find a way to make Morgana think it's my fault we're late, aren't you?”

“That's what you're here for, Merlin,” Arthur pointed out and Merlin sighed as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Lancelot was grinning to himself as he drove.

“What's so funny?” Arthur demanded.

“I'm just remembering why you haven't taken a wife, my lord.”

Arthur snorted and did his best to ignore them both.

Morgana's sitting room was pale green and full of precise, breakable things which could not be moved from their places without a glower which turned her guests' spines to ice. Even her chairs were upholstered in a delicate shade of cream which would be ruined by the slightest hint of a muddy boot. Arthur generally preferred to stay standing when he visited her.

Of course, Morgana herself was wearing red, much to the visible distress of her chaperone. Luckily for Arthur, she was ignoring him in favour of delicately interrogating Lancelot about every woman he had danced with the night before.

“Arthur will organise a dinner party,” she announced. “We'll invite your five favourites and some dullards to even the numbers out. You cannot truly judge a woman's character in a single dance.”

“My lady,” Lancelot started, eyes a little frantic, but she talked over him.

“Perhaps we could prevail upon my guardian to host a house party. Country weekends always lead to engagements.”

Lancelot sent Arthur a pleading glance, which Arthur ignored. The man wanted a wife, didn't he, and who better than Morgana to find him one?

The door opened and Merlin bounced in, followed by Gwen. Arthur smiled at her. He'd known her since she was nothing more than the blacksmith's daughter, and she had always brought calm with her. She was honour and comfort and quiet grace and he was always glad to see her.

Then she stopped dead, her eyes widening in shock as she brought her hands to her mouth. Puzzled, Arthur followed her gaze in time to see Lancelot rising to his feet, looking as if the breath had been knocked out of him.

“Guinevere,” he said, and it was as if he could no longer see anyone else in the room.

“Lancelot,” Gwen breathed, taking a shaky step forward. There was a new bright joy in her eyes.

Morgana, suddenly silent, surged to her feet and darted towards Arthur, babbling, “Did I tell you I bought a new horse. You must see him, right now, immediately, I mean. My stables-”

“Right,” Arthur said and they both grabbed Merlin's sleeves and towed him out of the room, letting the door slam closed behind him. They got halfway down the corridor before Morgana dropped onto a chair, covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

Merlin fell to his knees in front of her, curling his hands around her knees. “It's good. They're happy together. Always.”

“I know,” Morgana choked as Arthur put a hesitant hand on her shoulder. “But I'm going to miss her. I'm going to miss her so much.”

Merlin lunged up to wrap her in a wholly inappropriate, yet somehow unsurprising, hug. “It will be better this time. They'll be happy.”

“I always lose her,” Morgana gasped. “Every time, I lose her.”

“You won't lose any of us,” Merlin swore, sincere in a way that unnerved Arthur. “Not this time. Not again.”

Arthur took a step away. He should be dragging Merlin away, shouting up a scandal, but all his instincts rebelled against it. They looked like siblings, pale and intense, sharing some knowledge he didn't understand. Tentatively, not sure if the ground underfoot was safe enough to bear him, he said, “So, dinner party cancelled, then?”

Morgana managed a sniffly laugh, but shook her head. “No. Throw it for me, instead.”

“I like Lancelot more than you,” Arthur said and didn't wince at all when she pinched him.

  


#

  
Later that day, following Merlin through the dark but respectable streets of Soho, he couldn't shake off the strangeness of it. Yes, Lancelot had been gone for year, but he and Gwen had grown up together. How could you walk into a room and see somebody you had known forever and just fall like that?

“They only looked at each other,” he said.

“Maybe it was destiny,” Merlin said, lifting the torch a little higher.

Arthur conveyed his opinion of that in a look, which Merlin failed to notice.

“Really,” Merlin said. “Maybe they just finally recognised that they belonged together. I think it's great. Brilliant.”

“Brilliant,” Arthur repeated.

“You don't think so?” Merlin swung round, looking suddenly panicky. “You're not angry, are you? You don't feel betrayed?”

“What are you on about?” Arthur snapped. “Of course I'm happy for them. I just don't like the idea of destiny.”

“Okay,” Merlin said cheerfully. “I was never very good at the whole obedience to fate thing, either. What are we going to do in St Giles? Just look around for a bit, right?”

“We could talk to some people,” Arthur suggested.

“Or we could not. You open your mouth in there and you'll be stabbed for your purse.”

“I can defend myself.”

Merlin gave him a completely unwarranted sceptical look. Around them, the walls were closing in as the road grew narrower. Overhead, the buildings were tangled and battered, windows and rooms jutting out. There was a stink in the air, of shit and rot and filth. Underfoot, the cobbles were becoming stained, rags and rotting scraps heaped against the walls and a black, stinking stream smearing along the middle of the road. Cries echoed from above, screams of rage and shrieks of pleasure, howling babies and whimpering voices sobbing dryly.

“Mercy, sir,” a voice whispered by his knees and he jumped, looking down to see a woman dragging herself up from a cellar. She was gaunt, her hair matted with dirt, and all she wore was a ragged coat, hanging open to expose her shrivelled breasts and protruding ribs.

“Mercy,” she wailed. “Mercy, please, sir. Please.” She reached out to cling to his knees, her fingers brittle and cold through the thin cloth.

“Go home,” Merlin said to her, pulling Arthur away. Then, very softly, he breathed, “ _Slæp hleowe._ ”

Her fingers slid from Arthur's knee and she crawled away, head bowed.

“What did you say?” Arthur demanded harshly.

“It was just a, y'know, a thing,” Merlin said. “A blessing.”

Arthur wasn't convinced, but there were more desperate creatures stirring in the shadows, crowding forward to wail and plead with him. He kept walking, though his heart was breaking. These were the poor his father dismissed as a burden and plague on society. These were the people of Britain, that ancient Albion whose generosity and greatness poets praised.

Something wet hit his face and he looked up to see lines strung across the street, heavy with ragged clothing. Pigeons clung to the sagging eaves, roosting. The windows were broken or empty, or filled in with brown paper, straw and old felt. The plaster had flaked off the walls, leaving the pitted and sooty bricks below exposed. Doors hung loosely off rotting frames and in the dim spaces behind he could see further passages, full of huddled and hollow cheeked forms.

On the corner ahead of them, light and noise spilled out of a low building. A woman was slumped by the door, legs lolling as she laughed shrilly., her hair hanging in ragged hanks. Within, Arthur could glimpse a tight press of heaving bodies, rough clay tankards being passed back and forth in a tumult of shouting and quarrelling.

“Seen enough yet?” Merlin asked.

“No,” Arthur snapped, though he was beginning to believe all Mordred's wildest stories. Still, he had come here to learn the truth, and felt that he had a duty to these people; that he must learn the true horror of their lives. Ignoring Merlin's huff of dismay, he pushed forward into the tavern.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regency AU in which Arthur is the darling of the _ton_ , Merlin is still a terrible valet, Mordred is a radical rabble-rouser, and Gwen's in love with a Light Dragoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Tennyson's _Morte D'Arthur_. Prompted by [this poem](http://www.pa56.org/ross/hicok.htm) Many thanks to [](http://itachitachi.livejournal.com/profile)[**itachitachi**](http://itachitachi.livejournal.com/) for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.

At dawn, as they walked silently back towards St James. Arthur couldn't bring himself to speak, despite Merlin's increasingly desperate attempts at forcing a conversation. The streets were quieter now, although they were still lined with huddled sleepers. Arthur wanted more than anything to be home; to scrub the lingering stench of the rookery off his skin and out from under his fingers.

The poor bastards who lived here had nowhere else to go. Their only income was of the poorest, lowest sort: begging and fruit selling and whoring. They had no vote to use to pressure the powerful for change. They had no influential patrons arguing their cause, and barely any resources to win attention.

“Arthur!” Merlin whispered urgently.

Arthur realised at once what the problem was. Behind them, two shadowy figures had emerged from alleyways on either side of the road, moving with slow purpose. Arthur watched them come with a faint sense of satisfaction.

“Shouldn't we be running?” Merlin asked nervously, as two more figures appeared in front of them.

“No,” Arthur said, glancing around. There was a spar of wood, slimy and splintered, lying in the road. He kicked it up into his hand and waited, feeling a strange exultation rise through him. He'd always considered both boxing and fencing as art forms, but right now he wanted something bloodier and brutal.

When the first one came into range, a thin knife glinting in his hand, Arthur was already moving, swinging the spar round to slam into the man's side. He staggered and Arthur followed the arc of the spar through, taking the next man in the head and then driving the spar backwards to force away a third man. Merlin was kneeling by his feet, gasping something Arthur couldn't understand as he turned into the fourth man's space, swinging for him with the sort of ease that only came with muscle deep memory, although he'd never fought like this before.

The first man, starting to rise, crashed back to the ground, rubbish suddenly tangling around his ankles. Arthur speared his current opponent in the throat and then slammed the end of his spar down on the first man's head. The last man standing, already dazed and bruised, broke and ran.

“That's right!” Merlin shouted after him, voice exuberant. “Run! Go on! Run!” He staggered to his feet, grinning at Arthur. “We showed _them._ ”

“Some help you were,” Arthur said, clutching his bit of wood close and breathing heavily, not quite sure where that sudden burst of violence had come from. “Let's go home.”

Five minutes later he finally managed to uncurl his fingers from his spar of wood and throw it away, shocked to realise that his palms were scored with splinters. They were back in fashionable London now, and he felt as if he had emerged from the underworld.

Back at home, he sank down in a chair, staring at his palms. He had a sinking fear that he'd killed a man back there, and he'd done it without hesitation, using a skill he didn't realise he had. Maybe there was some truth in Lancelot's crazy theory – maybe he had been some common soldier in another life.

“I've prepared a bath,” Merlin said.

Arthur followed him through to his bedchamber, blinking at the slight steam rising from the tub. Hot water?

“In you get then,” Merlin said with false cheer.

Arthur lifted his hands to loosen his shirt, wincing a little. Merlin tutted like a old woman and stepped closer, undressing Arthur with a quick efficiency. He babbled away as Arthur sank into the water, but Arthur wasn't listening.

He let the warmth of the water seep through him as Merlin knelt beside the tub and cleaned and bandaged his hands, lips pursed with concentration as he picked each splinter out. Arthur closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sting. It felt like months since he had watched two of his best friends fall in love with a single glance, months of poverty and misery and violence.

“Up you come,” Merlin said, tugging at his elbows. Arthur stood, letting Merlin dry him, more inconsequential chatter flowing past him like water.

Eventually, grabbing the towel out of Merlin's ineffectual hands, he snarled, “Mordred was _right._ ”

“Not about you,” Merlin said fiercely.

“About everything. How can I call myself a just man when people I could help are living like that? How can I claim to be honourable when I may have killed three men?”

“You were defending yourself. And you'll do something now, won't you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Arthur demanded. “There's nothing I can do.”

“Yes, there is,” Merlin said, suddenly intense. “There must be. You're Arthur Pendragon. You could change the world if you wanted to.”

Arthur looked at him, disturbed by that sudden and absolute trust. He wasn't worthy of that. Angry for reasons he couldn't quite articulate, he stalked across to his bed. He lay down, turning his back on Merlin, and dragged the blankets up to his chin.

Behind him, Merlin sighed in exasperation. Arthur listened to him move around the room, dragging the tub out onto the landing and then coming back in, the door thudding closed behind him. He went around the room and Arthur watched the light grow pale and wan as Merlin blew out each candle in turn. At last he sat on the end of the bed, and the last flame went out with a huff. Arthur closed his eyes against the morning, and tried to pretend that he didn't know that Merlin was still perched by his feet, waiting and watching. He slowed his breathing, though he couldn't relax the tense muscles in his back.

After a while, a warm hand rested on his shoulder and Merlin whispered, “ _Swef þu, min cyning._ ”

Arthur slept.

  


#

  
He dreamt he walked through dark tunnels, hewn out of rock by rough axes. The stone pressed around him closely, as if it wanted to crush this narrow passage out of existence. He was wounded, exhausted and desperate, and he dragged himself on, knowing that this was the last and most forlorn hope.

His torch was burning low when the passage opened out in front of him, into a vast and shadowy cavern. The ground dropped sheerly just ahead of him and rose so high that he wondered how deep he had come. There was dim light filtering in through a distant crack and the glint of water far, far below.

Arthur raised his guttering torch and shouted, with the last of his strength, “Dragon!”

His voice echoed across the cave - “Gone-on-on.”

He braced himself against the damp wall with his free hand and drew breath to shout again.

Then, with a deafening rattle of chains and boom of wings, the dragon came plummeting towards him, jaws wide. Arthur lifted his torch in hopeless defiance, but it merely settled on the crag opposite and snaked its head forward, until it was so close he could see the flame of the torch reflecting in its eyes.

“We meet at last, Arthur Pendragon,” it said, sounding pleased. “You have been long foretold.”

“Camelot is falling,” he said, looking into its eyes, seeking some hint of compassion in those inhuman depths. “By tomorrow, we will be overrun. My people are dying.”

“Do you think I will weep for Camelot?” the dragon asked, raising its foot so its chains clanked faintly.

“My father is dead.”

The dragon's eyes widened slowly. Then it reared back, wings beating the air as it threw back its head and screamed, “Dead! Dead at last!” It roared, so loud the stones reverberated, and with that roar the air was full of flames, blasting from the dragon's huge and open jaws.

Arthur threw his arm up to cover his face, but the fire did not touch him. Instead it washed across the cavern, lighting up every pitted and grimy hollow. Then, with a thunder of wings, the dragon lunged forward towards him again, stopping so close that its hot and sulphurous breath swirled around him like fog.

“Why have you come to tell me this, once and future king?”

“You counselled kings once,” Arthur said, meeting its gaze. “Tell me what to do to drive this invasion back. For the people of Camelot.”

The dragon stared at him and he felt as if he was being measured. Then it exhaled and he held back his flinch, keeping his back straight through his body was screaming at him to drop where he stood.

“Tell your warlock,” the dragon hissed softly, “that it is time for him to keep his promise.”

Then it was rising into the air again, chain glowing gold as the last of the lingering flames faded to nothing.

“What warlock?” Arthur shouted after it, sagging. “I don't know what you mean!”

But there was no reply.

  


#

  
He woke up murmuring of dragons and warlocks and Merlin murmured, “Not any more. They're all gone. Go to sleep.”

“You're in my bed again,” Arthur said stupidly.

“It's more comfortable than mine.”

Arthur blinked up at him where he was perched on the end of the bed, hugging his knees. “Not out there, it isn't.” He lifted up the blankets in invitation.

Merlin slid underneath quickly. “Well, if you insist.”

Arthur ignored him to roll over and go back to sleep.

  


#

  
He'd dreamed of the castle before, of its tapestried walls and statues in every alcove. He knew it well enough to know that the door in front of him was to his chambers. His shoulders were aching and the crown was a heavy weight upon his brow, and he pushed his door open with an unseemly eagerness.

It was dim inside, the curtains drawn, and hundreds of dancing candle flames hung in the air, small and warm and gleaming. They were drifting around each other in slow circles, like dancers in the hall, bobbing up and down through the air. Arthur hesitated, looking across the room.

Merlin was sprawled out across the bed, grinning happily to himself as he directed the flames with sweeping movements of his hands. His shirt was open at the neck, his hair loose to his shoulders, and he was barefoot.

“Having fun?” Arthur asked.

Merlin waved at him and the flames went dancing through the air, parting ahead of Arthur to shape a path to the bed. As he crossed the room, they bobbed little bows to him and went back to dancing. Arthur sank down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward in exhaustion.

“Not in the mood for candles?” Merlin asked and the room went dim with a myriad little pops. Merlin knelt up to take the crown off Arthur's head and loosen his cloak.

“That's not your job any more,” Arthur said. Merlin still had no sense of rank.

“I don't mind,” he said. “Come here.”

Arthur pulled himself up the bed, leaning back into heaped pillows and Merlin's embrace. “Have you been lazing around all day?”

“I stopped an invasion of pixies.”

“Pixies?” Arthur echoed incredulously. “That's supposed to be a serious magical threat?”

“You laugh now,” Merlin said, tucking one hand under Arthur's tunic to rub comfortably at his belly, “but pixies eat _anything._ ”

“So do some ex-manservant court sorcerers, from what I've seen.”

“Anything including stone walls and human flesh.”

“Fine, good job then.” Merlin's hand had slid round to play with the laces of his breeches, and Arthur turned his head to bite lazily at his jaw. “Aren't you going to ask about my day?”

“Oh, I'm sure you spent it doing, y'know, kingly things. Sitting on your throne, shouting at people, reading dull reports.”

“I signed a new treaty,” Arthur pointed out, pouting a little.

“Was it a good treaty?” The laces slipped apart and Merlin closed his hand around Arthur's cock with a hum of satisfaction.

Arthur let his legs fall apart, pressing up into Merlin's touch. “Not bad. I didn't have to promise to marry anyone.”

“Not bad at all,” Merlin said absently, flexing his wrist thoughtfully.

“All of which you'd have known if you'd been there like you were supposed to.”

“Sorry,” Merlin said with so little sincerity that Arthur would have scowled if he wasn't too focussed on what Merlin's hand was doing. “The pixies ate Cook's stays.”

That did get a glare. “Never, ever mention something like that when you're – oh.”

“I'll make it up to you,” Merlin promised, and leant forward to nip at Arthur's bottom lip. Arthur turned it into a proper kiss, pushing him down with a snort of laughter at Merlin's flail of surprise.

  


#

  
When he woke, Merlin was snoring against his shoulder, and Arthur almost had his arms round him before he realised it had been a dream. Instead, he turned the motion into a shove.

“Yes, sire, right away,” Merlin muttered and went back to snoring.

Arthur stared at the ceiling, wondering what the _hell_ that had been. He wasn't – he'd never – it was just because Merlin was here, and so had inveigled his way into Arthur's dreams. That was all.

But he couldn't be certain, not when every dream he had seemed more real than the last. He had felt everything, from the warmth of Merlin's mouth on his to the rough texture of the embroidery on the bedclothes; had tasted the salt tang of Merlin's sweat against his lips. It had felt real.

  


#

  
Later that day, he went to call on Mordred, but found his rooms closed up. He tracked down another of the FitzLothian brothers but all Agravain would tell him, lip curling with distaste, was that Mordred had gone to Manchester.

He didn't come back, and Arthur's temper worsened as the weeks passed. He didn't know anyone else who could advise him on what to do to help the poor. He didn't go back to the rookery.

He managed to stay pleasant when he was with Lancelot and Gwen, though their quiet, wondering joy in each other left him feeling empty and a little alone. He fought with Morgana, who seemed glad to slice at him in return. His dreams grew ever more vivid, showing him another, impossible time and place, pinning him down into a legend he had never believed in. He found it hard to be at ease with Merlin, even though he could see the damage he was doing in hurt eyes and perfectly followed orders.

The Season faltered to its end, more and more of the _ton_ disappearing into the countryside. London began to stink, but Arthur insisted on staying nonetheless. The reeking, steaming metropolis suited his mood. Morgana disappeared off to Brighton for a week, but came back in seething temper after some idiot suitor chose to declare his passion for her in off-colour poetry. On the Steine. At midday.

“Why I should be expected to be embarrassed, I do not know!” she stormed, pacing along the room as Gwen looked on with quiet concern. “Now I can go nowhere in the town without some shallow little gossip giggling behind her hand or some foul old man leering at me.”

“Want me to call him out?” Arthur asked hopefully. He was beginning to crave a good brawl.

She whirled on him. “No! You promised me no challenges!”

“That was months ago,” Arthur said, incredulously. He was less inclined to dismiss Morgana's nightmares these days, but this was taking the thing too far.

“Well, forgive me for worrying about your wellbeing,” she retorted. “I'll not make the same mistake again.”

Luckily, at that moment, the butler appeared to announce, “Captain DuLac.”

Lancelot followed him in, bowing to Morgana and smiling at Gwen. “Welcome back. How-”

“Don't ask,” Arthur advised.

“Take Gwen away,” Morgana said to him. “She doesn't deserve more of my temper.”

“You're no trouble,” Gwen said, but she looked tired.

“You are both welcome to join me for a ride,” Lancelot said, “but I was hoping to organise something for tomorrow. A cousin of mine is working at the Royal Gardens in Kew and has offered a tour. I was hoping to get a party up, perhaps by boat.”

“I'd like that,” Gwen said, and Morgana smiled, less edgy than she had been. Arthur nodded approval at Lancelot. It would be an easy matter for him to arrange for a boat, and they would all benefit from some country air. He'd even drag Merlin along, try to cheer him up.

  


#

  
The next morning, however, news arrived in London of the events in Manchester on the previous Monday. A gathering of the poor at St Peter's Field in the city, protesting their lack of parliamentary representation, had been subject to the Riot Act, _The Times_ explained in rushed and tired prose:

 _The local troops, it is said, behaved with great alacrity. The consternation and dismay which spread among the immense crowd collected cannot be conceived. The multitude was composed of a large proportion of females. The prancing of cavalry, and the active use of the sabre among them, created a dreadful scene of confusion, and we may add, of carnage._

They went to Kew, though the mood was subdued and Arthur sent Merlin out early the next morning for fresh news. More and more details emerged – of the serious and orderly march of the poor from Manchester and beyond, from Rochdale and Oldham, Wigan and Bury, Bolton and Middleton, fully half of the population of the city and its surroundings; of the arrests of not only the reformers who had spoken before the crowd, but also the reporter from The Times; of the child knocked from his mother's arms and trampled to death; of the men and women sabred and crushed by the charge; of the riots that followed in Oldham, Stockport and Macclesfield; the claims of reformers that the women among the crowd had been targeted above the men.

London was seething with rumour and suspicion, many closing themselves up in their houses for fear that the rioting would spread, the militia everywhere on the streets. There were windows broken across Mayfair and St James and radical slogans painted across the front of his father's residence.

When he saw in the paper that Mordred had been arrested, Arthur sent the bail north, along with his personal guarantee, though he knew it would ignite his father's rage. The general regarded even the mildest sedition as a personal betrayal.

Part of him wanted to walk out there and join the masses of the angry and disenfranchised. He was certain, though, that they would see him as an enemy, so he sat by his window, gazing down at the parched grass in the square below. He was doing all he could, though that was limited to speaking out when he heard the men around him sneer at the dead or praise the action of the 15th Hussars or the Cheshire Yeomanry.

Behind him, Merlin slipped into the room, clearing his throat loudly.

“What?” Arthur said. He barely knew how to talk to Merlin these days, forgetting whether he was valet or sorceror, friend and servant or lover and adviser.

“Mordred's back in London.”

Arthur swung round. “Get my coat.”

“He's not seeing visitors,” Merlin said, crossing his arms. “And Morgana's here.”

“What the devil does she want?”

“She's upset,” Merlin told him, a note of censure in his voice.

“Don't look at me. I've done nothing.”

When he got to the parlour, Morgana was already on her feet, her cheeks ashen and her eyes shadowed. She took a few steps forward as he came in, gasping, “You promised!”

“Promised what?” Arthur asked irritably.

“Not to take a challenge.”

“And I _haven't._ ”

“I dreamt it. You died.”

“I'm more likely to be bludgeoned in a dark alley than shot in a duel,” he muttered, but then took pity on her. It wasn't right to see her so shaken. “I promised you, didn't I?”

She gave him a searching look, but then nodded. “Be careful.”

“I'm always careful, Morgana.”

“No,” she said, turning to leave. “You're not.”

  


#

  
A furious letter from his father arrived that afternoon – the news of events in Manchester had finally reached him in whatever tiny village was hosting his presence. He expended pages on a critique of the treachery and meanness of every man, woman and child who had dared stand in that field, and exhorted Arthur to speak out against the pestilence of radicalism.

Arthur threw the letter into the fire and set out for the circus. He collected Lancelot out of his lodgings on the way, despite his protests, and then decided to add Gwen and Morgana to the party.

“My lord, I really don't think you should be out on the streets in the current climate,” Lancelot protested as they waited on Morgana's doorstep, Arthur tapping his foot impatiently. “And the ladies-”

“Morgana's a better shot than you are,” Arthur snapped. “And Gwen can defend herself.”

“I know, sir,” Lancelot said patiently. “It's one of the qualities I value in her, but we shouldn't expose them-”

“Astley's?” Morgana asked, sailing out of the door in full regalia, gleaming silk and shimmers of gold and sapphire at her throat and ears. “I hope you have decent seats booked.”

“When did I need to book seats?” Arthur demanded, offering her his arm, and pretended he didn't see Gwen and Lancelot exchange dismayed glances behind his head.

He'd taken the precaution of using a closed carriage and letting his footman drive, much as it pained him to let anyone else handle his horses. To compensate, he amused himself by calling Morgana's outfit gaudy, and let the fun commence.

The entertainment that night was a harlequin on horseback, with promises of a genuine fox chase and one Mr Dimond, the Flying Hussar.

“Unequalled leaps without the use of elastic apparatus or harnesses,” Arthur read out, waving the programme at Morgana. They had been shown to the best seats in the house without any hesitation on the part of the management.

“Perhaps they'll put the elastics on the horse,” Morgana suggested lightly, snatching the programme from him.

Morgana's nervous little chaperone cleared her throat and said reproachfully, “That would be very unkind to the poor beast, my lady.”

Morgana ignored her, but Gwen patted her on the hand and said kindly, “I'm sure they'll do nothing of the sort, Miss Garlott. Look, you can see the horses gathering now – they look quite happy.”

Then the trumpets blew and the entertainment began.

By the interval, Morgana was eyeing the brightly dressed female acrobats with more speculative envy than Arthur was entirely comfortable with and Lancelot was making little hiccupy sounds of horror. Perhaps bringing a cavalry officer to a so-called Equestrian Pantomime had not been one of Arthur's brightest ideas.

Then Gwen grabbed his arm, her fingers digging in tightly as she whispered, “My lord! Arthur! Mordred's here!”

Arthur turned to look, following her gaze. Sure enough, Mordred was down in the stalls, with one of his brothers, their heads close together as they quarrelled. Then Mordred jumped up, shoving his way towards the back of the theatre.

Immediately, Arthur too was on his feet, snapping, “I need air.” He pushed his way out, looking around for Mordred as he came out onto the street. The younger man was there, standing in the middle of the road, his head bowed.

“Mordred,” Arthur said softly. “How are you?”

The other man spun to face him, and Arthur winced a little. He looked gaunt, his eyes too wide and hazy in his pale face. His clothes were untidy, and his hair unclean. When he saw Arthur he hissed, “Pendragon!”

Arthur recoiled at the loathing in his voice. He'd helped the man, damn it.

“You bought me out,” Mordred said, fists clenching and falling open. “My friends are in prison, the people I sought to help trampled by the army sworn to protect them, the very hope of reform in tatters and I walk free because a duke's son willed it so. How is that just, Arthur Pendragon?”

“It's not,” Arthur said. “Look, you're angry and you're grieving. Go home. Sleep. Then tomorrow, let me help.” He reached out to steady Mordred, who looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks.

Mordred slapped his hand away. “You are everything that is wrong with this country. You spout compassion, but never act upon your words. You talk justice and resort to patronage and bribery. I would have died for you once, but now you're nothing but a parasite.”

Arthur put his hands on Mordred's shoulders, stopping his feeble attempts to escape. He could feel the worlds of dream and reality pushing together again and let instinct guide him as he spoke, “Then let us help each other. There can still be an Albion.”

“Even Albion was built on blood,” Mordred said and lifted his head to look Arthur in the eyes. There was a glint of something terrifying and familiar in those wide eyes, something it hurt to remember. “I don't want your help. I demand satisfaction.”

Behind them, Agravain FitzLothian came out of the theatre, Lancelot, Gwen and Morgana a few steps behind him. Arthur ignored them to look at Mordred. In the end, it wasn't hard. There was no question of honour here, not with the man on the brink of madness. “I won't take your challenge, Mordred.”

“You must,” Mordred hissed. “You- You're not my king now. You're not worth anything more than a sacrifice.”

“Still, I won't fight you.” Arthur stepped back, and called over Mordred's shoulder. “Agravain, take your brother home. He's not fit.”

Mordred turned his head to look at his brother. Then he saw Lancelot. The uncertainty faded out of him. He turned and stalked towards Lancelot, shoulders set.

“Lancelot DuLac,” he said, voice soft. “The brave captain. It was a man like you who ordered the cavalry forward at Peterloo. Sarah Jones had seven children before she was beaten to her death. William Fildes was two years old, knocked from his mother's arms by a trooper late to the slaughter and trampled in the road. John Lees fought beside you at Waterloo. Now he lies dying because a man like you cut him down when he was unarmed.”

“It was not me,” Lancelot said, compassion in his eyes. “I was not there.”

“But you are a soldier,” Mordred said reasonably. “You would have obeyed. You would have slaughtered the innocent.”

“Mordred,” Agravain said. “Let's go.”

Mordred didn't seem to hear him. “For the murder done by men like you, Lancelot DuLac, I demand satisfaction.”

“No,” Lancelot said, and looked at Agravain. “Sir, I advise you to take your brother home before he finds someone who will accept his challenge.”

“Oh, I'll find someone,” Mordred said, with a little smile, and shoved past Lancelot to approach Gwen and Morgana.

Morgana drew her skirts back with a faint sneer. “I won't duel you either, FitzLothian.”

“I would not expect it of you,” Mordred said with a little bow. Then he lunged up, fist snapping forward, and hit Gwen.

The blow was hard enough to knock her off her feet, and both Arthur and Lancelot leapt at Mordred, Arthur dragging him away, locking his arms behind his back. Lancelot dropped to his knees beside Gwen, who was sitting up already.

“I'm fine,” she said impatiently, but her lip was bleeding.

Mordred hung limply in Arthur's arms, not resisting at all. Then, he said, with a note of triumph, “Now will you accept my challenge, DuLac?”

“No!” Morgana breathed.

Lancelot stood up slowly, and gave a curt nod. “Name your second.”

“Don't!” Gwen said furiously.

“Agravain will do,” Mordred said and turned his head up. “I presume we'll see you there too, my liege.”

“Yes,” Arthur said and shoved him at Agravain. “Get him out of here and, for God's sake, talk sense into him. We're leaving.”

Agravain nodded grimly. “If sense does not prevail, Hampstead?”

“Certainly. You'll arrange for a surgeon?”

Nobody said a word until they were back in the coach. Then Morgana burst out, “Have you lost your mind? You can't fight him. You'll be killed.”

“I will not, my lady,” Lancelot said coolly.

“Hurt him and you'll be ruined. He can trace his family tree back to Saxon kings. You are the son of a country vicar!”

“What is right is not determined by blood.”

“You will be a pariah in London!”

“I live in India.”

“Arthur!” she snarled. “Beat some sense into him.”

Before Arthur could speak up, Gwen said quietly, “Morgana. That's enough.”

Arthur's breath caught. Suddenly, she was commanding, though she did not even raise her voice.

“If I had struck him back, there and then,” she said, “that would have been just and fair. If you had struck him, it would have been a little less fair, but understandable. That moment has passed.”

“He insulted you,” Lancelot said, leaning towards her. “I cannot bear it.”

“I can,” Gwen said. “Easily. I would rather have you alive and ignore the blow, than have you dead and my honour avenged.”

“It is a matter of justice, Guinevere.”

“Honour and justice are words men use to excuse revenge and violence. You cannot shoot that man, Lancelot. He is mad.”

Arthur cleared his throat and put in cautiously, “He doesn't even know what century it is.”

Morgana gave him a sceptical look at that, but Gwen nodded.

Lancelot looked between them and then said, “Then I will delope, of course.”

“And have him shoot you?” Gwen asked.

“Then you leave me no choice but to defend myself.”

“I cannot marry you if you are dead, and I will not marry you if you have that man's life on your conscience.” She looked towards Arthur. “I would like to go home now.”

  


#

  
When he finally got home, Arthur didn't even have the energy to wake Merlin up. Instead, he sank down into a chair and looked across at his peacefully slumbering valet. Merlin still didn't look much more than a boy, all tousled hair and awkward grace, and Arthur wondered if he would ever look old.

For someone who was so clumsy when awake, he was a restful sight when sleeping. It made Arthur want to close his eyes and drop down beside him, but there was little point. He had to be up well before dawn and it would be easier not to sleep.

In his dreams, he had married Gwen and loved both her and Merlin and it had led to disaster. He didn't have Gwen this time, and didn't quite mind, because he was happy that her heart was clear and guiltless this time. He wondered, though, if he would always be alone. Or would Merlin kiss him in the same way now? Could he risk that, turning his back on marriage and family and always watching for a careless gesture? Did Merlin even feel the same way this time? Or was he, in fact, the very same man Arthur had known before, eternally young and honest and blazingly loyal?

He reached out, watching his hand as if he didn't control it. He was almost cupping Merlin's cheek when Merlin's eyes opened.

“Oh, you're back,” he said.

“I am. Go to your bed before you give yourself backache.”

“Don't you want my help?” Merlin asked, that little hint of hurt back in his eyes again.

Arthur looked away. “I wasn't intending to sleep. I have an early start tomorrow.”

“What happened?”

“There's a duel. Mordred-”

“Morgana warned you!” Merlin snapped, leaning forward to grab his arms. “She warned you and she warned you and-”

“He challenged Lancelot.”

Merlin stared at him. Then he said, voice squeaking a little, “What?”

He'd had time to think about this on the way home, after his failed attempt to talk Lancelot out of it (all his respect for Arthur was nothing to his stubbornness on matters of honour). Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned into Merlin a little. “Mordred's not going to kill me. Not this time. He's going to kill Lancelot and break Gwen's heart. Everything's wrong.”

“We never get it right,” Merlin said sadly.

“Sometimes we get close,” Arthur said, thinking of the sun over Camelot, the golden days of Albion.

“How much do you remember?”

“Some days, some battles. Are all my dreams true?”

“Depends what you're dreaming,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “The thing with the troll, yes, but anything with singing animals is just a dream.”

Arthur gave him an incredulous look, but simply pressed his hand around the back of Merlin's head and drew him closer.

“Oh, that,” Merlin said, licking his lips nervously. “That was real, yes.”

“Good,” Arthur said and wondered about closing the gap between them.

Merlin made the decision for him, kissing him with more ease and competence than Arthur expected, though he shouldn't be surprised, because Merlin had kissed him before, so many times, and he could remember it too, if he tried: how to tilt his head and press in close, what it took to coax a little gasp out of Merlin.

When he drew back, he was breathless and he hoped he didn't look quite as wild-eyed as Merlin. Unthinkingly, he licked his lips.

“Oh,” Merlin said, sounding a little dazed, and closed in again. At the end of that kiss, he managed a gulp of air and said, “I can make sure we wake up at the right time, if you, uh-”

“Bed,” Arthur managed. “Now.”

They made their way down the hall sedately enough, but the moment the door closed behind them, they tangled around each other again, groping clumsily at laces and buttons until Arthur was shrugging off his shirt and Merlin was tripping over the clothes tangled around his ankles. Arthur dragged him out of the mess and shoved him across the room until they both went tumbling onto the bed, elbows in ribs and chins bumping, and it didn't matter at all because Merlin was kissing him so eagerly his head spun and Arthur's leg had curled up around Merlin's hips, locking them together. Then Merlin twitched and slipped a hand down between them, lining their cocks up and wrapping his hand around them both.

Arthur gasped, his hands snatching at Merlin's thin shoulders and tugging at his hair as he thrust up into Merlin's touch. He forgot Mordred, forgot Lancelot, forgot all the expectations of two lifetimes, forgot everything but Merlin, with his knowing hands and golden eyes and hungry, desperate mouth.

Later, sated and exhausted, he crashed back against his pillows and yanked Merlin down against his shoulder. Merlin, predictably, wriggled, so Arthur opened one eye and said, “Stay still.”

“I'm not very good at that,” Merlin murmuring, nuzzling Arthur's shoulder. “Never have been.”

“Time to learn, then,” Arthur said, locking his arms around Merlin so he couldn't squirm. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

  


#

  
The courtyard was full of ragged and bloodied fighters, a garrison of servants and children and the wounded. Arthur had left Merlin arming the kitchen maids while he sought out the dragon. Now he found himself reluctant to step out there again, to admit that he had failed to find some great spell to use against the Saxons as they pressed forward. His father's last stand had won them a few more days, but not enough.

It took him a moment to realise that there were more people in the courtyard than there had been when he left, green and crimson cloaks among the grubby scarlet rags of Camelot livery. With a sudden surge of panic, he looked around for Merlin.

He was over by the gate, surrounded by newcomers. When he spotted Arthur looking, he waved to him with both arms, shouting, “They made it! They've come to help!”

Arthur walked over towards him, blinking the blur of exhaustion from his eyes. Then he realised who was standing beside Merlin and broke into a run.

Morgana threw herself into his arms, swearing at him like any trooper, and he clutched her tight, not quite believing that she was alive and here, five years after she had fled Camelot. He set her back on her feet and felt his eyebrows rise as he got a good look at her. She was dressed for action, in close fitting leather armour, a sword at her belt and a bow over her shoulder, her hair bound back tightly.

She sniffed at him. “We've come to fight with you, Arthur. All of us.”

“Who?” Arthur said.

“The druids,” she said, as if it should be obvious, and seized his shoulder to turn him round. “Here, our warleader.”

He was little more than a boy, with serious blue eyes and the hint of strength in the way he moved. He bowed his head to Arthur. “Once and future king. We have come to join you, as was foreseen.”

“You remember Mordred,” Morgana said. “You saved his life once.”

“I remember,” Arthur said and clasped the youth's arms. “Welcome to Camelot.”

Mordred gave him a guarded, slightly shy, smile. “Our scouts found their camp. There is a place where the druids have existing fortifications, where we could slow their advance. If you have a map-”

“Here.” It was Gwen, cool-headed, practical, beautiful Guinevere, who had taken more and more of the running of the campaign on her shoulders as each battle took its toll. She unrolled the map and Mordred looked over it, chewing on his lip as if it was an unfamiliar sight.

Then he pointed to a spot less than a day's ride from Camelot, where the road east came down out of the mountains. “There.”

“ _Mons Badonicus_ ,” Gwen read.

“Yes,” Mordred said, nodding. “Badon Hill.”

“You know they have a dragon, don't you?” Arthur said. He had never expected help from this quarter, not after his father's purges, and he wasn't going to lead them to a doom they didn't expect. “Big, white, wormlike thing. Breathes out poison.”

“We know,” Mordred said, and Morgana nodded impatiently.

“Uther killed the last one of those we had,” she said bitterly.

“Father's dead,” Arthur said, watching the shock burn through her. “And the dragon isn't. He needs a warlock to set him free.” A thought occurred to him and he turned to Mordred. “You do magic, don't you?”

“It's for Emrys,” Mordred told him, as if that ought to mean something to him.

“What's for me?” Merlin said behind him, ambling up to join them. “Gwen, that Hyacinth girl is wasted as a scullery maid. She's the best archer I've seen in years.” Them, noticing Arthur staring at him. “What?”

“Merlin,” Arthur said slowly, feeling a thousand tiny puzzles suddenly resolve themselves. “Are you a warlock?”

“No,” Merlin said, shaking his head quickly. “I'd be rubbish at magic, me. You know what I'm like. Really, that would be the last thing I'd-”

“So when the Great Dragon below the castle tells me his help relies upon my warlock keeping his word...”

Merlin stared at him for a moment, his usually open face unreadable. The he said, “Ah.”

“Get on with it, you idiot,” Arthur snapped.

“So you can cut my head off as soon as possible?” Merlin asked.

“I'm not going to cut your head off.”

“Or burn me at the stake. I hear that really hurts, y'know.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, enunciating his words very clearly, “I am not going to execute you for using magic. For wasting valuable time, however-”

“Can't blame me for checking,” Merlin said. Then he lifted his hand up towards the bright sky and his eyes went gold, as if he was drinking in the sunlight until it shone through him. For a long moment, he just stood there, the air stirring around him.

Then, in a voice that rumbled through the very ground beneath Arthur's feet, he said, “ _Abræc!_ ”

From deep below the castle there was a snap which shook the ground, sending Arthur jolting into Mordred. It was followed by a bellow of triumph.

Everything was silent, as everyone in the courtyard, including the druids, who Arthur wouldn't have thought would be impressed by a bit of magic, stared at Merlin.

Then there was the distinctive sound of wings the size of rooftops, and the faint rattle of chains, and the dragon appeared over the top of the wall. As most of the people in the courtyard ran screaming for cover, it landed on the castle roof, the last few links of the chain around its ankle crashing against the stones, fracturing a gargoyle.

It grinned at the running crowds and then bent its head down to intone, “Hail, Arthur Pendragon. Hail, Once and Future King of Albion!” Then it looked sideways and added, “Well met, Emrys. The terms of your oath have been fulfilled.”

“I hope I won't come to regret it,” Merlin said, as if picking fights with huge, fire-breathing lizards was part of his everyday routine.

“That is for the future to reveal,” the dragon said. “It is for destiny to decide.”

Merlin winced at the word destiny and the dragon added, in what was possibly intended to be a confidential whisper, “Do you still resist your destiny, Emrys? Arthur Pendragon is your destiny, the other half of your coin, the Achilles to your Pat-”

“I've heard this before,” Merlin hissed.

Behind him, Morgana was choking back laughter. Arthur glared at Merlin, because that was less risky than scowling at the dragon.

“Do we ride for battle yet?” the dragon demanded.

Arthur glanced at Gwen, who pursed her lips and said, “Realistically? Two hours, maybe three.”

“I shall wait here,” the dragon pronounced. “It has been long since I felt the touch of the sun upon my wings.” With that, it reared up, spreading its wings across the sky. Dust came spiralling down and the dragon sighed in satisfaction. Squinting up, Arthur saw the hue of its wings begin to deepen as the sun warmed its skin, dirty beige turning into a red as bright and blazing as the banners of Camelot.

  


#

  
He came awake feeling right in his skin for once. Merlin was wrapped around him, muttering as he lifted his head. A candle lit itself beside the bed.

“Oh,” he said, and gave Arthur a happy grin. Then his face fell and he said, “Right. Duel.”

“Yes,” Arthur said glumly. He sat up, blinking into the shadows, and then reconsidered and turned back to kiss Merlin down against the pillows.

“Oh,” Merlin muttered contentedly, and then, sadly, “We really shouldn't be late for this.”

“I know,” Arthur said grimly and got out of bed.

It was cold riding through the quiet streets at this hour, and he could taste the first tang of autumn in the air. Beside him, Merlin was shivering as he bit back yawns. The Heath was barely stirring when they reached it, a few early rabbits and a late owl swooping out of the darkness. Arthur remembered this feeling, the mornings before battles, and wondered if the rest of his life would be like this, memories of two worlds layered and entwined.

“How old are you?”

Merlin shrugged. “I don't know. There were things when I came so close to dying that I slept for years. The first time I thought I really was dead. And I didn't count closely for the first few centuries. It's not so bad. In between times, I let it sink to the back of my mind. Just get on with a normal life. Then, when you appear, I find you.”

“Are we always?”

“Lovers?” He hunched up in his saddle. “Only when you remember.”

“Does that happen often?”

“No,” Merlin said, so softly Arthur almost didn't hear him. “Not often, no.”

The sky was beginning to lighten, and now the spiky branches of the gorse and brambles showed as stark shadows around them. Approaching the duelling ground, they heard the soft noises of horses and quiet voices. Someone had arrived before them.

Lancelot wasn't there yet, but Agravain and Mordred were. Arthur rode to the far end of the ground and left his horses with Merlin, walking up towards the other two. Agravain came to meet him, face unhappy and anxious.

“I can't talk sense into him, my lord.”

“Lancelot intends to delope, I believe,” Arthur said.

“Mordred won't,” Agravain said, looking up at him miserably, pale under his freckles. Arthur put a comforting hand on his shoulder, prompted by two sets of memories – of this man and his brothers, laughing as they were seated around his table, and of the young town blood who had always been on the outside of his circle, stammering and a little overawed.

“You are not to blame,” he said. “I promise you, whatever may happen, your brother's cause will win my support.”

“You are too kind,” Agravain said and then pointed past him. “Your man is here, and that's the surgeon.”

“One last chance to get them reconciled,” Arthur said grimly and went to fetch Lancelot.

But nothing he or Agravain could say could persuade Mordred to withdraw, and Lancelot, a little more reasonable, demanded an apology to Gwen that Mordred refused to give. All too soon, they withdrew to their separate ends of the ground. As Arthur and Agravain met again to check the pistols, they heard hooves sound behind them.

Gwen and Morgana came riding out of the heath. Both were wrapped in thick red cloaks, their faces grim, bruises livid on Gwen's cheek. Morgana nodded to Arthur, and they turned their horses to join Merlin to one side of the ground.

“Not with ladies here,” Agravain protested miserably.

“Tell Mordred that,” Arthur said and handed the pistol back. “Damn it, man, what are we doing here? Sending a good man to his death?”

“He's not right,” Agravain said. “I want to get him out of town – out of any town – but he won't go. He has a duty, he says. He says the martyrs never turned away from their cause.”

“We're past the age of martyrs,” Arthur said grimly. “Let's go.”

When Lancelot took the gun from him, Arthur gripped his wrist tightly. He could have tried more reproaches or appeals to reason, but he refrained and simply said, “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Lancelot said and Arthur backed away to stand with Merlin, the surgeon and the women. Morgana was holding Gwen's arm, but Gwen herself was standing straight, her head lifted. Agravain came over to join them, offering Arthur his own handkerchief.

“I can't do it,” he said.

Arthur took it and walked forward, closer to the ground. He lifted it, brandishing it so both men could see.

Then he let it fall.

Lancelot swung his pistol up, firing into the sky. Mordred took one step forward, lifting his gun. He swivelled on his heel, swinging away from Lancelot with a noise that sounded like a sob.

Then he shot Arthur.

Before Arthur could even flinch, Merlin was barrelling into him, knocking him to the ground. The bullet shrieked in, slicing through Arthur's shoulder like a hot knife, but missing his heart.

People were shouting, Morgana's voice near a scream, and Mordred was walking forward, loading his gun again. Arthur, gasping for breath as the shock of pain running down his arm, tried to crawl toward him, but Merlin shoved him down again, rising to his own knees.

As Mordred levelled the gun again, Merlin held out his hand and said, “ _Astell!_ ”

The gun flew out of Mordred's hand, spinning through the air as Merlin added, voice sharp and hard, “Abeorn!”

The gun exploded, the force of the blast knocking Arthur and Merlin back and lifting Mordred from his feet to throw him back against a tree. Birds went squealing up into the air and one of the horses reared in protest.

Then there was quiet, broken only by the sound of the wind in the trees.

Arthur pushed to his feet, waving the surgeon off. “A scratch, no more. See to FitzLothian.”

“I'm sorry,” Merlin whispered as they followed the others up the field, his arm around Arthur's waist. “I should have reacted faster.”

“Fast enough,” Arthur said. “I don't need you to hold me up.”

“I know,” Merlin said, but didn't let go, and Arthur stopped complaining.

The surgeon looked up as they came close. “Two ribs broken, and the wind knocked out of him. Likely a concussion. Extraordinary, all quite extraordinary.”

“Send your bill to me,” Arthur said, which should be enough to ensure discretion. He knelt down beside Mordred, letting the surgeon at his shoulder before he dismissed the man.

Mordred opened his eyes, blinking. He looked very young, and Arthur put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Steady. You've had all the breath and sense knocked out of you.”

“I killed you,” Mordred gasped.

“Not this time,” Arthur said. “And I forgive you.”

Mordred closed his eyes again, but Arthur caught the look of desolation, and said quietly, ignoring Merlin's hand on his shoulder and Morgana's silent rage behind him, “Do you know what I dreamt of this morning? That day before Badon, when you came riding out of the mountains to save us, and the dragon flew above us. I knew then that I could trust you. I should have remembered that.”

Mordred frowned a little. “No one listened.”

“I know. I should have done. You were my loyal councillor for years. I should listened, even when I didn't care for your advice.”

“Even now.”

“They will,” Arthur promised, remembering the young druid who had stayed by his shoulder through the length of his first great battle, and the bitter man who had killed him in the last. “This time, we'll get it right.”

“I don't believe you,” Mordred said flatly.

“Morgana,” Arthur said.

She looked down at him, shaking her head. “I don't- No, Arthur. I can't.”

“Yes, you can.” It was Gwen, still holding onto Lancelot so tightly Arthur couldn't tell how either of them were breathing. “I don't claim to understand all that's happening here, but I know you can control it, when you're not afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” Morgana grated out.

“Well, then,” Arthur said and she glowered at him. Then, reluctantly, she unfolded her arms and took a deep breath.

Her eyes filled with gold, and she gasped softly. Then, she began to smile, her whole face brightening.

“All I could see of this day,” she said slowly, “was death. One or both of you dead, and the poor forgotten in the scandal. The authorities already turn against reform and today would have sharpened their anger. There was famine coming, and suppression, and fire in the city streets. Now, that future is fading. I cannot see what happens next – it's like light bending through water. There's so many ways the future could go that they all blur together.”

Mordred struggled to sit up, clasping his ribs with a gasp of pain. It was Morgana who knelt down to support him, the gold fading from her eyes. He turned to look at her, saying nothing Arthur could hear, and she nodded.

Arthur stepped away from them, poking at his new bandage with mild distaste. God willing, this would never reach the ears of the _ton_. Merlin came to stand beside him as Arthur looked at them all, Gwen and Lancelot, relieved, good-hearted Agravain, Mordred, dazed but no longer frantic, Morgana with a new hint of purpose. Beyond them, a golden dawn was showing through the trees, washing the world in a bright and hopeful light.

“Maybe not so bad this time,” he said to Merlin, who was close enough that their good shoulders were touching. The world was full of possibilities.

“I reckon so,” Merlin said contentedly. “Definitely better than that time when we were all outlaws and you made us dress up in green all the time.”

Arthur gave him a slow, horrified look. “That is a joke. Tell me that is a joke.”

Merlin just grinned at him, and Morgana added thoughtfully, “Better not tell him about the time we were all actors.”

“Actors?” Arthur echoed incredulously.

“But he made such a lovely Juliet,” Mordred added and smiled, that old sweet uncertain smile Arthur hadn't seen for centuries.

Arthur closed his eyes and thought of everything they could do, here and now, in this time. Then, because they were all grinning at him expectantly, he demanded, “Just how many lifetimes do I have to spend with these people? Merlin? _Merlin_ , you are not supposed to laugh at me, and I don't care if you are eleven centuries old, I still expect you to get the stains out of this shirt once we get home. And don't forget to clean...”


End file.
